


red lights and golden lanterns

by myefflorescence



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Character Study, Dark Past, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Feels, Fluff, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Mild Blood, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Build, Slow Romance, Tattoos, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:42:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myefflorescence/pseuds/myefflorescence
Summary: in which yachi tries to run from her past, and ushijima is her present. // 29.04.20
Relationships: Ushijima Wakatoshi & Yachi Hitoka, Ushijima Wakatoshi/Yachi Hitoka
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	red lights and golden lanterns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AbyssalSage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbyssalSage/gifts).



> _In this world which you are born into, you suffer until you die._
> 
> _...And there aren't many good things in life._

Such was the cold, hard truth that Hitoka had learned throughout what little years she had spent living in the seedy neighbourhood of Tokyo’s notorious Red Light district, named after the seductive glow of those fiery lanterns that painted the roads with rich crimson, flaunting their provocative nature in all of its light and glory. Black market stalls that presented themselves with goods which would’ve been illegal to purchase elsewhere and makeshift brothels that flaunted the beauty of women so openly were the irreplaceable essentials of Kabukicho, topped with the heavy smell of alcohol and cigars, cheap perfumes and body scents that polluted the air. Such was the briskness of the district that only came alive at night, catering to a naughty lifestyle that symbolized the peak of leisure in its finest, most extravagant manner.

And yet, beneath the flamboyant surface and its flashiness laid the most rotten parts of society ever imagined, lurking in the form of crammed alleyways and streets so twisted and narrow that occasionally, Hitoka still struggled to find her way around in spite of the fact that she had lived there all these years. Lived, however, was an overstatement. Hitoka wasn’t sure what it was that she had been doing, merely existing or just idling around, but living sounded like such a luxury that people in this area, people similar to her, couldn’t afford. To truly live, Hitoka mused, meant to find a purpose in life, which was precisely what she never had, but as someone who much preferred looking on the bright side of things, Hitoka often convinced herself that she was still quite too young to be bothered with it, and that she was already living – as much living as one could do in the stretch of Golden Gai, anyways.

The residents here found what the name had implied quite fitting to the saturation of their humor. _"Golden Gai,"_ they would often say it out loud in a tone riddled with the misery of the poor, with a hope that it would magically vanish in thin air along with the smoke exhaled from their lips. Hitoka understood the poorly concealed venom in their voices, though: just because people had moved past denial and come to accept their fates, didn’t mean that they had to actually like it. And that was true when it came to the life in Golden Gai – there was hardly anything golden about a maze of a hundred or so buildings crammed so tightly together there was scarcely an arm’s length of space between them, the two-story ramshackle houses that could barely provide comfort to a couple let alone fitting five people for a proper business, or the dimly-lit lanterns that glowed a dull yellow at night in contrast with Kabukicho’s vibrant red, giving the tightly-knit neighbourhood much eerier, more run-down look than what it truly was – dark, mystic, arcane. In spite of all these shortcomings, Golden Gai preyed upon the curious human nature with the secretiveness of its closed streets and the privacy of its roads. Narrow stairways, memories that stayed where they were made and deep conversations were all one could seek in tiny bars trademarked of the area, so small that it wasn’t hard to find yourself face to face with a barman and his stack of liquor as soon as you entered, not good enough for the taste to linger, but good enough to drown out the bad things in life. Market stalls and brothels were much rarer around here solely due to the lack of space, but not entirely nonexistent. They just came in the forms of discreet dealers and unhappy courtesans that didn’t look all too pleasant with their poor choice of clothes, but Hitoka supposed that was as happy as one could be, living in such a place.

She knew, though, that poverty was not what had made Golden Gai so fearsome and intimidating in the eyes of the outsiders – poverty in itself was not something to be feared. However, the extents to which it could drive a person was. Desperate and miserable, people resorted to all kinds of cruel deeds; even the more gruesome, inhumane ones. While she had never allowed herself to degrade to such a state before, Hitoka figured that morals hardly mattered when one was below the pit of society; for at that point, only one thing remained a priority: survival. And in order to survive, crimes were committed: vandalism, harassment, theft, murder – the darkest sides of humanity on display, and all of those, on top of greed and gluttony, plagued the streets of Golden Gai.

The yakuza ruled this area with an iron fist, or at the very least, those who claimed to be. Long were gone the glorious days of who Hitoka had considered the authentic yakuza. To be one, in her mind, was to adhere to their way of life: justice, duty, and chivalry. Those who were willing to fight for their brothers and help innocent civilians, using their strength without abusing the weaker and lesser were what the spirit used to be back in the days, not people who hurt others just because they could. Yakuza were powerful and intimidating, unlawful and did not conform to the restraints of society, but they had rules by which they strictly abided and a moral compass. They were nothing like the gangsters that roamed with ridiculous arrogance and a self-proclaimed title that allowed them the delusion of being superior to others, even though they were at the bottom of the sea themselves. Of course, Hitoka was, by no means, pure – and she had never tricked herself into thinking so. She was well aware of where she came from and the things she had done that granted her what could be called a privilege in this area: a slightly more spacious lot on the outskirt. Still, Hitoka believed she had certain redeemable qualities that made it easier for her to look in the mirror and not turn away in disgust. She had, at the very least, morality and compassion towards others.

It did not change, however, the fact that her life had messed up somewhere for her to end up where she was now.

The little teahouse that she ran was one of the rare things Hitoka’s crippling insecurities allowed her to be proud of. Finely decorated in a classic traditional style, the place was quite a hidden gem beneath the crumbling exterior of Golden Gai, enough to provide her three meals a day and then some for the saving. That was the privilege that she had owned, and when one was privileged in the realm of the poor, one was bound to be discriminated. It was almost mocking so, how people found the need to make others miserable if they themselves were miserable in life. Hitoka’s teahouse had gradually become a perfect target for the sadistic thugs who thrived in her weak protests, her frail body that got swallowed whole within’ their shadows. Her little joy in life would’ve been dragged to absolute filth and destroyed beyond saving under the hands of those ferals, had it not been for the presence of one man.

Nobody knew where exactly he came from, where he planned to go, or why he had chosen to stay in the slumps of Golden Gai. But day after day, he would be the first to greet her upon opening the doors and the last to bid her a good night upon closure. He always sat at the back-of-house joint, in a corner that allowed him to see nearly the entirety of the house, and would do so in absolute silence aside from the very, very rare occasions on which Hitoka could gather up what little courage she possessed to ask him a question. There were a lot of things about him she had yearned to find out; many people here, in spite of their rugged appearances, had such interesting stories to tell one never would’ve guessed to be true. What was his? Why did he always, without missing a single day, come to her shop? And why, despite having absolutely no reason to, would he continue to protect her from the violent men that threatened to ruin her life when he could’ve just turned and left? Was he truly as kind as his actions had proven, or was he merely seeking to take advantage of her? The last thought, Hitoka felt guilty for even thinking about, but the cruel nature of life had taught her to be wary of people she didn’t know.

Throughout the years that he had frequented at her teahouse, Hitoka had picked up the fragments and pieces that never quite filled a puzzle of what kind of a person her mysterious guardian was. She knew, however, that his name was Wakatoshi, that he liked green tea and never had she seen him order anything else aside from it, not even the finest sake of her shop. On the days that he was her only customer, Hitoka would let herself have the pleasure of performing a proper ceremony in front of him: he never protested. And when the rhythmic whisking of wooden bristles, the crackling flames of the charcoal filled the silence between them, she felt oddly at ease.

Wakatoshi’s presence was comfortable and peaceful, in contrast to his powerfully intimidating appearance; and oh, he was very intimidating indeed, with his eyes of steel and overwhelming height, his broad shoulders and sharp jawline, the rough edges of his defined features. Wakatoshi was strong, impossibly strong, and that strength was the first thing she had witnessed from him when he fought her offenders without so much as breaking a sweat. The only things he had broken were a few tables and then a side of her shoji screens. He did come back the next day, though, and fixed them all up while she profusely thanked him and apologized at the same time, which led to another speculation:

Wakatoshi was very, very kind.

He never asked for anything in exchange for his protection, except a pot of green tea every day which he already paid for. The strength that he had been blessed with, he never used to abuse the less fortunate ones – she knew, she had seen him around and then heard as much from the whispers of the townspeople: in a neighbourhood as small as this, where everybody knew each other and words traveled faster than the time it took for water to boil, it was hard to conceal any wrongdoings if he had committed any. The only bad thing she had heard about him was that nobody knew of his background – but humans had a tendency to fear the unknown, so Hitoka didn’t really mind that.

Still, whenever it was just the two of them in the shop and she found herself fascinated with the look of concentration on his face as he read a book, Hitoka had to bite back the urge to spill questions all over him, and maybe, just maybe, she wanted to know what he thought of her. Perhaps she was delusional, but just this once, Hitoka wanted to think that she was special in some way: the feeling of being important, even if it was to a stranger, made her heart flutter naively in a way it had never before. So if she were to set aside the fact that Wakatoshi was the kind of man that only acted upon what he thought was right, with no hidden intentions, so blunt and honest, perhaps she could allow herself to dream for once. They had, after all, been acquainted for years: and even though she knew nothing of where he came from and he knew nothing about her, Hitoka thrived with being the only one to know how he liked his tea, how he was a slow reader, how he appeared to be cold and aloof, but was actually very considerate and mindful of his surroundings. Could it possibly be enough if she were to say it was his kindness that had exposed her vulnerability; it was the respectful and almost cautious manner that he treated her with, the way he never once asked for her to pay back for the troubles she caused him? Could that possibly be enough reason for her to long for a better life?

“…Hitoka.”

Outside, the wind was howling as the first waves of snowflakes dusted the air, painting the confined district with an even gloomier feel. Hitoka’s teahouse didn’t have many guests during this time of the year, though the same could be said of every other business in these alleys: poor as they were, the winter breezes had seeped through the tiny cracks on the wall and brought along such unpleasant coldness not even a round of good sake could fix. Fortunately, the coal which she had used to brew Wakatoshi’s tea provided heat enough for the both of them not to shiver in this weather; and as they sat in perfect ambience, when the only sounds that disrupted their silence was the tingling of her whisk against fine ceramic, the trickling of water when she poured it into a bowl, his rhythmic, gentle breathing that got lost amidst this symphony, Hitoka finally found the warmth and serenity that soothed her troubled soul.

When she didn’t answer his call, Wakatoshi lowered the book he had been reading onto the table, and turned to look at the girl. For a moment, he was transfixed by the circular motion of her dainty hands as she stirred the finely grinded powder into boiling water, rapid at first, then slower when they became one, finally coming to a halt. His gaze travelled to her face just as she looked up at him and their eyes met, a color akin to the spring blossoms dusting across her pale cheeks. Hastily, Hitoka offered the drink with a bow – an action that Wakatoshi reciprocated before he took the bowl in his hands.

The long exhales of his breath melted into the steam of tea as he brought it to his lips, carefully taking a sip. Now, Wakatoshi hadn’t had the luxury of travelling to many places, but he could say with certainty that Hitoka brewed the best green tea in all of Japan. It wasn’t the fact that he knew she always used the best brand of matcha she could afford, but the thought she had given to the ceremony that breathed life into it. He noticed the way she gave him shallow bowls during hot seasons, and deeper ones during winter so as to preserve the warmth in his palms when he held it. It was her efforts that had made the tea taste even richer in his mouth, with its unique earthiness that was hard to forget. Raising the bowl once more, Wakatoshi half hid behind the long sleeve of his haori, observing the trance that Hitoka had found herself in.

She was staring out the window again, a habit he never quite understood. It was as if there was always something she found fascinating out there, be it the glowing lanterns or winter’s blight. She watched the passersby with a look of forlornness in her amber eyes, and on those occasions, Wakatoshi finally saw her for who she truly was. Hitoka strived too hard to appear older than her actual age, with golden hair high in an elaborate bun that weighed heavy on her head, the crimson liner that brought out the sharpness of her eyes, almost defensively. Even in this weather her dainty neck and clavicle were on display for the guests, and no matter how beautifully she could coax them in with her words, how fluidly she moved to serve them, Hitoka could hardly hide from him the dreadful anxiety beneath her gentle voice, the trembling of her figure whenever those men decided to overstep their boundaries. It was a teahouse, not a brothel, yet still she allowed them to do as they wished, only meekly protesting when it had gotten too far.

It wasn’t a shame to admit that she was weak, and as much as Wakatoshi despised violence, he hated violence that was directed towards helpless, innocent people even more – and so, even though she always fretted and felt guilty about it, he didn’t stop helping her time after time. He never understood why she made it out to be a bigger problem than it was: he had the strength and the time to provide her protection as he deemed fit, and surely she wouldn’t have wanted those thugs to have their way either. It was only natural.

Eventually, she stopped protesting, and the sword he wore on his side was the unsaid declaration of her acceptance, his loyalty to her alone.

“Wakatoshi-san,” she called with that wavering voice of hers, the lantern’s golden hues reflecting in her amber eyes. If he squinted hard enough, he could almost make out the faint outlines of his silhouette in them. “…You never used the sword, did you?”

There was a hint of accusation in her tone, mild discontent, perhaps, that she masked well within’ her gentle words. He could only shake his head in reply to this and unwrapped the weapon, setting it down on the table in front of her. “If you wish, you can have it back,” he told her sternly, before silence fell between them.

He had never seen the sword unsheathed, but let it accompany him anyways, for it was a gift from the girl he had subconsciously vowed to protect. The day she had pressed it into his hands was the first time his blood had spilled for her sake – it hadn’t been a grave injury, just a mere cut from a dagger with an ache that left as fast as it had appeared, but she had insisted on him having the weapon nonetheless. He remembered the rosy tint of her face, and the way she had tripped over her own words when their hands brushed against one another. It was the closest they had come to physical contact ever since they had become acquainted, and even though there was a crestfallen look in her eyes when Wakatoshi told her he had no need for a weapon of such caliber, the light of happiness had not diminished in them. “I have no doubt in your strength,” she had said to him with a timid smile. “It’s…It’s more for my conscience.”

He didn’t understand her then, and neither did he at this moment. Hitoka had a beautiful smile, but it was blemished with hints of loneliness, the secrets she buried beneath the long lashes that obscured her solemn gaze. In his eyes, she was kind, just unfortunate, and yet she lacked the innocence and naivety that should’ve been there – it was almost as if she was sullied from the inside, he thought, there was always a reason for people ending up in Golden Gai, doing the things that she did. He never asked, but he was sure whatever her story carried, it was the reason behind the melancholy she harbored, the paranoia plaguing her nature. Hitoka had always given him that impression of constantly running away from someone or something, always cautious, as if she could die instantly if she let her guard down.

“I avoid violence when it is not necessary,” he told her, then watched as her fingers traced diligently along the sheath of the sword, following its curve. “I do not wish to stain my hands with the blood of others, nor do I seek vengeance. Such deeds belong to the yakuza.”

Her hand ceased all movement at once, hovering above the weapon. There was a noticeable tension in the way she went rigid at his words, eyes widening.

“Do you…loathe them? The yakuza?”

He let her question linger for a brief moment.

“…I lost my family to them."

They both went quiet after that: she did, in order to let the weight of his confession sink in; and he did, to ponder whether or not he had made the right decision in telling her. This was a new kind of intimacy that they had never shared before. It was strange, nerve-wracking, a bit thrilling and yet relieving all at the same time. For her part, Hitoka’s heart soared with the knowledge that he had felt comfortable enough to tell her this, yet at the same time, she dreaded telling him the truth. After tonight, after learning of the reason why he would never lay a hand on her sword, she finally came to the realization that it was better to live a cruel reality than to dream sweetly.

“…Me too,” she told him, quietly, voice almost lost in the wind. He seemed surprised at this – but that bit of emotion had faded as fast as it had appeared, returning the usual aloofness of his expressions.

“I believe there are some respectable clans out there, but for the most part, I refuse to affiliate with any of them,” he said, then finished the rest of his drink and stood up, placing a few golden coins onto the table. “I apologize if I had distressed you with the topic. I should be taking my leave now.”

“Wait—!”

Hitoka had pulled onto the tail of his haori, stopping him in his tracks. When he looked back at her, he could hardly see the expression she was wearing within the shadow that drowned out half of her face, but her fists were trembling and her voice was wavering when she asked between soft breaths.

“There’s…a storm, outside. Won’t you stay the night?"

* * *

Winter passed and spring left in a fleeting breeze. Before she knew it, summer had come once again.

Golden Gai, poor as it may be, had a unique feeling that made it appear almost otherworldly in certain moments. To be more precise, when the seasonal rain was falling heavily and she could hear its pitter patter against the rooftops, see the distorted reflections of dimly lit lanterns in the puddles underneath her feet, splashing when she ran by, Hitoka felt the district’s ambience more strongly than she had ever felt it in other moments. On another occasion, when her heartbeat wasn’t ringing painfully in her ears and throbbing with pain, perhaps she would slow down and take a walk in the rain, for her own enjoyment.

“Kill her! She ratted us out to the oyabun!”

Rushed footsteps and violent profanities ruined the neighborhood’s sudden quietness as a group of delinquents pursued Hitoka through its streets. All by herself, Hitoka had no choice but to continue running despite the burn in her calves – she was unarmed, outnumbered, smaller. Her only advantage was the suffocating narrow width that had allowed her petite frame to move much more freely than those men, maneuvering her way between the crooks and corners. Still, they were determined, and when Hitoka came to the dreadful realization that there was no possible way to lose them, only one name appeared in her mind.

_Wakatoshi._

No, no! Not this time, she was not going to drag him into her mess and cause him more trouble than she already had. Yes, she was aware of the kind of person he was, and even moreso of his belief: Hitoka knew he meant it when he had told her he’d be more distraught if he couldn’t protect her. In spite of the silent permission she had given him, she couldn’t bring herself to rely on him so much. Not this time, but Kami, when the world was reduced to a mess of blurry motions and her lungs felt as though they were squeezed of air, her feet had carried her to a path they knew too well – home.

The teahouse.

Never before had she been so relieved to see him there, the only constant presence in her life. Wakatoshi had never looked stronger than he did at that moment, when she nearly collapsed upon reaching him and was caught in his arms that steadied her. As relieved as she was, the sounds of heavy footsteps tailing behind had snapped her back to reality, and the dread of what might follow. “Wakatoshi,” she hushed out amidst ragged breaths, almost incoherently so and latched onto his arms when he guided her inside the house, shaking her head violently. “No, no, d-don’t go out there, please, they’re armed, you can’t—“

His voice held an unwavering sense of reliability to it as he spoke. “Leave it to me,” he told her with a resolve harder than steel and gaze colder than winter night that she had never seen him wear before. There were many things that Hitoka had wanted to do at that very moment: beg, apologize, kiss him boldly as she had longed to – but instead, all she could do was cry and watch his retreating back as he slid the shoji screen closed, leaving her in the shadows. The taste of tears and raindrops was bitterly unpleasant, but when she thought of how dependable Wakatoshi had been, how eternally grateful and in-debt she was to him, it somehow became a little more bearable.

And yet, it was not enough to shake the dread from seeping all the way to her bones. True to her words, Hitoka had never once doubted her guardian’s strength – but strong as he was, he was only mortal like the rest of them were. She couldn’t bear to sit idly by while he was out there fighting to protect her, despite having absolutely no reason to at all. Sliding the shoji door open, she was immediately met with ferocious growls, breathless gasps and guttural grunts that tore through the silence of a restless night: water flew with each of his furious kicks, fervent heat radiated off with every swing of his fists. Whether it was sweat or rain that were rolling along his temples, Hitoka couldn’t tell. The lack of space had robbed their opponents of the ability to gang up on Wakatoshi, though none of them seemed to back down, not at all intimidated by the brute force of his strength. The first couple thugs were swiftly taken care of, but they kept coming in an endless stream – one after another, more viciously, less merciful with the blows they dealt to Wakatoshi’s body. Still, he faced them head on without a single ounce of fear in his eyes: whenever he was knocked down to his knee, even while gasping for air, he still raised both of his fists and assumed his fighting stance. For someone who had genuinely wanted peace, he hadn’t held back at all: he came after them like he had a score to settle, with full intention of stopping them at any cost. While he usually restrained himself, this time Wakatoshi was incredibly silent. He barely let out any grunts and showed no outward signs of exertion, no weaknesses, only resolve.

As impressive as the unfolding scene was, Hitoka couldn’t settle the ugly dread that was gnawing anxiously at her heart. At this pace, even if Wakatoshi wouldn’t fall at the hands of those delinquents, his body would physically fail to keep up with another dozen or so. She had to step in, Kami, she knew she had to, but if she did, he would find out. If she did, he would—

A flash of ebony drew her attention, eyes widening in horror.

“Wakatoshi!”

Wakatoshi could hardly process how quickly the tide of events had transpired next. There was an unbearable ache that weighed his arms down. His head throbbed, adrenaline pumping through his veins. While the power in his legs had remained, they lacked the strength to support him, not as much as he had wanted them to. One moment he felt the other man’s fist colliding with his face and Hitoka was crying out his name as his opponent pulled back, drawing something out from the holster on his side; the next, there was blood splattering everywhere from a gaping slash across the delinquent’s chest, dying his shirt a crimson red. And standing between them was Hitoka – shy, sweet, demure Hitoka with dampened locks of gold stuck to her face from the rain, and frail body that shivered in the cold. No, frail was hardly a fitting word to describe her in this moment, he thought, taken aback at the look of desperation that embellished her face, the blood tainting her pale skin. In her hands, she was holding onto the sword she had unsheathed from his side with a vice-like grip, its stained blade gleaming underneath the dim light and at that moment, Wakatoshi finally understood.

The uchigatana, with its compactness and light weight, favored by samurai in the past for battles fought on foot in more confined spaces, would have been a perfect weapon for someone her size. It had been Hitoka’s sword.

With one last glance to the man that had fought to protect her, Hitoka swallowed her fear down, and turned to face those still frozen in shock. Before, Wakatoshi was the doer, the enforcer – he had dirtied his hands in her favor while she ran and hid like a coward in her own shadow. He had unknowingly been the tempest of her calm, the hurricane of her eye, and now, it was time for her to return the favor.

Even if in the end, he would choose to leave.

* * *

She had never minded the oddly comfortable silence they often found themselves in, but this time, it was suffocating.

When the rainwater had turned red and bodies littered the narrow street of Golden Gai, they returned to the warmth of the teahouse without knowing how to resolve the tension between them. Many times, Hitoka’s mouth opened as if she was about to say something, but whenever it happened she was stopped in her tracks because of the unreadable expression on Wakatoshi’s face as he stared off into the distance, seemingly deep in thought. They were both drenched, water dripping off of their damp clothes on to the wooden floor. The uchigatana laid wordlessly between them, their reflections bouncing off the blade.

Suddenly, Hitoka slammed her forehead against the floor as she bowed deeply in front of him, hands on either side, startling Wakatoshi.

“What are y—“

“I have been lying to you all this time!” She cried out in distress, not daring to look up. The built up frustration since earlier was now spilling out forth like a broken dam, washing them clear of whatever secret it was that had been hidden, laying it out bare. Wakatoshi, taken aback, dropped the hand that nearly shot out to rest on top of her head, and stayed quiet.

“My customers…And those people, every single one of them, I didn’t serve them for the money,” she began. “It was a part of it, but I needed something else from them: information, insight on the mob that terrorized this district. If it weren’t for you…”

A pause, trailing off in her voice as Hitoka slowly looked up. Like always, Wakatoshi’s expression was still aloof, unreadable, and if it weren’t for how fate had played out, perhaps she would’ve laughed at the endearment of how familiar it had all become.

“If…If it weren’t for you, I would have killed them.”

With her confession uttered out loud, she hung her head low in shame, suddenly feeling much too small in his presence, unworthy, perhaps. She dreaded the idea of him being disgusted with her, or worse, loathing her, though neither of which she didn’t deserve. If she could, Hitoka wished to rewind back to the day they first met: it had been raining as heavily then as it was now, a midsummer monsoon that painted the district in a different light than it usually was. He didn’t know that every customer who came to that teahouse was registered prior, there was not a single of them who was there without a purpose. The shop was all but an undercover lair for Tokyo’s most notorious clan, a starting pawn in their game to conquer the entire city’s underground web. To put simply, if one wanted to do business with the oyabun, Yachi Hitoka would be the first door they had to open. If she were to deem them unbeneficial, as orders given from her superiors, they had to be taken out.

And yet, for some odd reason, she had made an exception for Wakatoshi that night, and opened the door to let him in.

Hitoka didn’t know what else she would have done if he hadn’t righteously interfered in her so-called meeting with the local self-proclaimed yakuza when it had gotten particularly nasty. Truly, she was more than capable of handling herself, but when Wakatoshi had wiped the floor with them and instilled such a fear that they never bothered her again afterwards, he had unknowingly awakened an odd sense of yearning in her heart. If she were to play a damsel in distress, and have him take care of those bothers without killing them, allowing them a second chance at redemption, then maybe she could finally have a fragment of a normal life she so desperately longed for, the life she never had.

She had acted impulsively out of her own selfishness, and let it carry on for far too long. What she never expected, however, was that one day she would come to get used to him, to the idea of him being in her life – and that, he would stay.

This time, she didn’t want to hide anymore.

Inhaling deeply, Hitoka turned around, and in front of his eyes, stripped off of her drenched kimono.

“Hito—" her name died down in his throat when the fabric fell to the ground, exposing her bare back in its entirety. There, carved into what would’ve been flawless skin, was the symbol that carried the true yakuza’s most priceless possession – their honor and pride. Running down along the length of her spine was the tattoo of a dragon, painted amidst the blue sea and the sun that burnt a bright red against her pale skin. The dragon spread its mightiness around her protruding shoulder blades, and its body dipped further down her lower back where the waves washed, conforming to the curves of her body. Hitoka let him drink in the details of the tattoo in silence, wondered if it looked as painful as what she had felt upon “earning” it, and subconsciously shrank when his gaze seemingly drilled into her.

“I’m not seeking forgiveness,” she spoke up, words cutting through the thick tension between them like a knife. “What I did was unforgiveable, I—"

_“Hitoka.”_

Mumbling something that sounded like an apology for touching her, Wakatoshi placed a hand on her bare shoulder, the lightness of his fingertips tickling her skin. The hesitance in his movement felt as though he didn’t know how to handle her at all, and this worry only increased when he saw how small she was compared to him. His fingers covered the entire span of her shoulder, and if he lowered his hand a little, he could wrap it fully around her arm. Hitoka shivered at the warmth of it against her dampened skin, but aside from that, she didn’t show any sign of protest, so Wakatoshi allowed himself to run his palm over the head of the dragon, then trace its scales with his fingers, marveling at the amount of detail that went into them. Usually, he wasn’t a person who understood the abstract meaning behind certain pieces of art, but when the only source of light in the room was illuminating the vibrant colors inked on her skin, when he could only hear the shakiness in her breathing and see the way she quivered underneath his touches, Wakatoshi suddenly found the tattoo that was conformed to the shape of her body very, very beautiful.

“I don’t hate you,” he reassured, reluctantly removing his hand from her back and pulling her kimono back up, draping it over her shoulders. After all they had just been through, the last thing he wanted was for her to catch a cold. “Even though you had lied, you had done so in order to give those men a chance to become better, hadn’t you?”

Hitoka could only nod in reply, sniffling a little.

“…Then I don’t see any issue with it,” he finally decided, drawing out a quiet exhale. When Hitoka had fixed her attire and turned to face him at last, he looked her in the eye, and said:

“If it’s a part of you, then so be it. Keep in mind that I am loyal to you, and you alone – not the yakuza.”

He had told her before, that there were certain clans he respected. Hers was, after all, not the one that haunted his past, and Hitoka herself hadn’t done anything horrible even as a yakuza. Of course, she would have had it not been for his sudden appearance in her life, but the fact remained that she didn’t. If she hadn’t been kind, if she hadn’t felt compassion and sympathy towards others, then she wouldn’t have let him in on that one stormy night, despite knowing full well that she had business to attend to.

Wakatoshi was, once again, lost in his own world. He had a tendency to do that quite a lot and she couldn’t resist breaking into a small smile of endearment from recognizing his little habit. Perhaps the words had been obvious for him to say, but to her, they were much, much more meaningful than he had probably intended for them to be. For someone who had never known the attractions of life and had been acknowledged by others, she suddenly felt a strange urge to leave this night behind and start anew the next day; preferably with Wakatoshi. Deciding to test out the idea, Hitoka hesitantly reached forward and wrapped her arms around his torso in an embrace. She had to rise on her knees and felt terribly shy doing so, but when his arms encircled her, pulling her closer for a tighter embrace, all of that reluctance was washed away. He bent a little to nuzzle into her hair as she buried her face in his chest, exhaling quietly at the warmth that washed over them both. At that moment, nothing else mattered but the fact that they were there in each other’s arms, breathing and alive, and unknowingly, they shared the same question of what the future would look like after that night.

“Wakatoshi?” Hitoka spoke up, voice muffled by the material of his haori which she refused to part with.

“Hm?”

“Will you…Will you have me?” She asked, coyly, and he could almost hear the nerves in her voice.

“Yes,” he told her, firm and full of reassurance, tangling his fingers into the strands of her hair.

“As who I am?”

_“All of you, Hitoka.”_


End file.
